And I said, "I have guessed enough."

And One said, "Yes."

But The Real was not there, and they passed away.

And One said, "I am Wealth," which was absurd, but No-one laughed. And
they all danced a fandango on the points of their toes. And a shaft of
light lay over them. And they wandered on. At last they came to a bad,
wicked naughty, brimstone place. And I said to Some-one, "I like this.
It seems a good place." And still No-one laughed. And Wealth touched
me, and I was glad. And I said, "Give me millions, or buy a box of
matches," and Law seized me and took me to the Cell. Then I said to
the Beak, "Your Worship." And the Beak said unto me, "Begging again.
Forty shillings." And again I woke. And it was all a striving and a
striving and an ending in Nothing.

THE END.

* * * * *

TO MLLE. JANE MAY.

"Au clair de la lune,
Mon ami PIERROT,
Prête-moi ta plume
Pour écrire un mot."

_Prête-moi ta plume!_ Could wit borrow a feather